


To Mend is To Bind

by Honu



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Turtlecest, tcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2583233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honu/pseuds/Honu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don is mentally and physically broken by a violent assault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This chapter includes sexual violence. Subsequent chapters will contain tcest.

The first tranquilizer dart thumped harmlessly against his shell with a soft _tink_. The second one hit home, puncturing his skin just above the left elbow.

The third one sent him to his knees.

Just before the world went dark, Donatello realized two things: first, that he was hopelessly outnumbered, and, second, that his brothers had no clue where he was. They probably thought he was still at April’s. And he had been—but then he’d decided to swing by the junkyard on the way home because the fridge was on the fritz _again_ , and he forgot to bring his cell (also again), but it was just a small detour, and he really needed another condenser fan because the whole thing was just barely holding together on a wing and a prayer, and if it crapped out for good this time, Mike’s not-so-secret stash of Snickers ice-cream bars would melt and –

****

When Donatello came to again, he was at first only aware that his shoulders ached like hell and that his head felt like a lead weight on his neck. Dazed and groggy from the trank, it took him almost a full minute to realize that he was hanging by his arms, and longer still before his bleary eyes registered the ropes attached to all four limbs.

The realization finally sunk in, and Don let out a long, sluggish moan. This was definitely not good. 

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He needed to find a way out of here—and fast—before someone noticed. But his brain felt like it’d been dunked in molasses, and it seemed an eternity before he finally managed to slowly crane his neck up and around to survey his surroundings through half-lidded eyes.

He appeared to be in some kind of warehouse: the bare cinderblock walls, lit by bright fluorescents overhead, were a pockmarked gray to match the concrete floor beneath his toes. Long, featureless hallways branched off to his right and left, seemingly without end, and a large freight elevator faced him with its wide doors gaping invitingly open, teasing him with a false promise of freedom.

His eyes travelled upwards, following the length of the ropes until they disappeared high up into the rafters where a series of insulated pipes crisscrossed the length of the building. The room was cavernous, but otherwise nondescript; no tell-tale sign to identify location or industry other than, Don wrinkled his nose, the faint smell of oil and exhaust fumes.

He shifted uncomfortably in his restraints. The ropes chaffed his skin, and were tight enough to slow the circulation in his extremities. Already his fingers had gone numb, and a creeping, tingling sensation was working its way along his arms and legs.

How long had he been out? Minutes? Hours? With no visible windows, and only the false daylight from the fluorescents above, it was impossible to tell. He didn’t have much time left, though. That much he knew. Don forced himself to concentrate, to think past the heavy fog that encircled his thoughts. The knots were strong, but he just might be able to–

There was a faint, rustling sound coming from the hallway to his right. Don tensed in anticipation. Shadows, three by the look of it, moved in and out of his peripheral vision. And then one of them separated and walked into his line of sight.

Tatsu.

Donatello’s stomach dropped.

Tatsu moved briskly towards him, his lips pressed in a hard, thin line. Stopping just out of range, the henchman crossed his arms on his chest and fixed a stony glare on the turtle.

Don’s heart jackhammered wildly. Tatsu’s presence could mean only one thing: Shredder.

The thought that his family’s mortal enemy was behind his capture sent a surge of adrenaline racing through him. Was Shredder there now? Is that who’d come in with Tatsu moments ago? Don’s eyes quickly scanned the edges of the room, but the other shadows he’d seen earlier remained frustratingly out of sight. He returned his attention to Tatsu, looking for any hint or sign on the henchman’s face, but the captor betrayed nothing.

Don remained still, his own face an expressionless mask, but his mind churned endlessly. _Think_ , he told himself. _There has to be a way out of this_. Trying to buy some time, he lifted his chin and gave Tatsu a baleful look. “What do you want?” he said in a low, icy tone.

“Nothing more than your life,” Tatsu responded, his words echoing flatly in the large room.

Don tried not to show the impact the threat had on him, but his breathing sounded harsh and strained even to his own ears.

Yet his voice did not waver: “My brothers will find you,” he countered grimly. 

Tatsu gave him another long, assessing look, then motioned towards something hidden in the far corner of the room. “We await their arrival,” he said cryptically. Don’s gaze followed Tatsu’s outstretched hand. At the juncture where the ceiling joined the walls, he could just make out the faint outline of a small video camera, its black, all-seeing eye trained on him. Shredder, no doubt, was watching on the other end.

And that’s when it hit Don: Shredder would use the footage to bait his brothers.

Don could feel the first twinges of helpless dread needling in his gut. He was the trap that would kill his brothers. A small voice in the back of his mind, a voice that was both cold and strangely unaffected, whispered to him that this was all his fault; his fault for not being more aware of his surroundings, for going out alone and forgetting his phone with its imbedded tracker, his family’s only means of finding him. But the realization had come too late, and he’d pay for it with his life. Worse still, the voice calmly told him, so would his brothers.

As if reading his thoughts, Tatsu gave him a rictus smile. “Master Shredder sends his regards.”

His cold eyes never leaving Donatello’s face, Tatsu lifted his arm again and signaled with a twitch of his hand. Two more shadows emerged, each clad in the familiar trademark of the Foot. One was gripping a metal tonfa, while the other lightly fingered the pommel of a saw-toothed kunai attached to his belt. Though Don couldn’t see their expressions hidden behind the black masks, he could feel their radiating hate—and the way they paced back and forth reminded him of caged tigers waiting for their kill.

Suddenly, the ropes were pulled taut and his limbs jerked out at extreme angles. Don bit down on a strangled hiss, determined not to give his enemies the satisfaction of hearing his pain.

He knew what was coming next. Donatello braced.

The Foot pounced on him like a pack of rabid dogs, vicious and bloodthirsty. One punched him just above his chin, shredding his lower lip with a ring. Don had a moment to read the inscription – Hempstead High 2004 – before the next punch sent a warm taste of blood rushing into his mouth. Another fist caught him in the eye, blackening it. Then a heel-kick looped down on his face, clipping his nose, and suddenly it was hard to breathe as blood poured down his throat in thick rivulets. Don struggled wildly, twisting and thrashing in his restraints, as more fists pistoned into his stomach.

He knew his chances of getting out alive were rapidly diminishing. But he wasn’t about to go down easy.

As if on cue, the man with the ring moved within reach. Sensing his opportunity, Don swung his head forward with all his strength, head-butting his assailant. Ring-Man floundered backward, roaring in fury and pain.

“Fuckin _freak_ broke my fuckin nose!” he screeched like a distraught woman, ripping the mask off his face to reveal an oddly bent and crooked appendage. Blood gushed down the Foot’s chin in a red torrent.

Despite his own pain, Don grinned back at him.

But then Tatsu, who had stood apart from the melee, bolted forward, a fiery heat radiating from his eyes. His arm flashed out and clouted Ring-Man upside his head with a backfist— _whap!_ —sending him sprawling in a tangle of limbs. “You idiot—finish him!” Tatsu roared.

Wincing like a beaten dog, the Foot obediently clambered to his knees, one hand still cupping his dripping face. He glowered up at Don from pain-filled eyes. “You’re gonna pay for this” he rasped dangerously, getting to his feet.

A moment later, the tonfa, metallic and foreboding, filled Don’s vision. The next instant it smashed across his plastron with bone-breaking force. Don gasped through clenched teeth. The pain that flooded through him was excruciating.

The tonfa slammed into him again and again like a battering ram, crashing violently against his arms and legs. Don’s body convulsed against the blows like a puppet on a string. Another hit, and then something in his lower leg snapped. _Probably the fibula_ , the toneless inner voice helpfully remarked. Donatello tried to block out the pain, to crawl beneath it, but his brain refused to disconnect. Blows continued to rain down on him in a never-ending concussion of fists, feet, and metal. The tonfa slammed against his shell with a force hard enough to rattle every bone in his body. Then an elbow hammered into his temple, sending a giant lightburst of pain rocketing through his head.

Ring-Man paused, the weapon still in hand. Breathing heavily, he wiped absently at the blood still dribbling from his own nose then peered intently at Don, as if inspecting a particularly interesting insect. Suddenly, a strange glint leapt into his eyes, and he gave a low, ominous chuckle. His partner, sensing the next act was about to start, closed in.

“Hold ‘im, Malcom,” Ring-Man ordered. Somebody, presumably Malcom, grabbed Don’s sides with callused hands, pinning him in place.

Ring-Man, twirling the tonfa, raised it up so Don could get a good eyeful. Then, with a grand, theatric gesture befitting a stage performance, he reversed the weapon so that the longer part of the shaft pointed upward. With a lecherous grin plastered across his cheeks, Ring-Man reached out to tap Don’s plastron with the rounded end, gave him a conspiratory wink, and then moved behind the turtle, out of view. The tonfa followed around as if on its own accord, the end tap-tapping along Don’s shoulder, then his shell, making a rhythmic downward trek towards the back of his thighs.

Don realized with sudden, gut-wrenching horror what was about to happen just before the cold, unyielding metal invaded his body. The pain was instantaneous, an explosion of indescribable agony. Don’s mind reeled from the terrible onslaught. He fought with renewed vigor against the ropes, but his efforts were rewarded with a swift mule-kick to the plastron, courtesy of one of Malcom’s steel-toed boots. Donatello went limp, groaning in pain.

Ring-Man gave him a knowing, shark-like grin, then plunged the tonfa further in. As his body shuddered against the alien presence inside him, Don felt a feinting kind of nausea seize him. He could hear a low, keening sound coming from somewhere far away, and then realized the sound was coming from him. 

Ring-Man paused to survey his work, his head cocked back, a bemused look on his face. Seemingly satisfied, he then leaned in close and grabbed the tails of Don’s bandana, wrenching the turtle’s head back. His malevolent eyes bored into Don’s. “You’re our bitch now,” he said to a bray of laughter from Malcom. He then gave Don a vulpine smile, made all the more horrible by the drying blood that still coated his mouth and chin. “Wanna little more?” he asked conversationally and pushed the shaft further.

Donatello’s squeezed his eyes into grim slits and gritted his teeth, trying to choke back on the scream that threatened to erupt.

Ring-Man glanced over at Malcom, who still held Don’s sides in a tight grip. “I think the freak likes it,” he said with mock wonder.

Don didn’t register Malcom’s reply because now Ring-Man had started turning the shaft in a circular motion. Don bit the insides of his cheeks hard enough to draw blood. The tonfa felt impossibly deep, the white-hot fire inside him rapidly building to an unbearable agony. Never before had he known so much pain. It was as if his insides had been flayed open, and his whole body turned inside out. Don was certain the brutal phallus couldn’t possibly go any further. But it did. And then something ripped inside him.

Donatello started screaming then. His cries filled the cavernous room in long, weeping hitches. And when the coldness pushed in further still, his cries turned to shrieks of agony.

 _No more, please no more, nomorenomore_ , his mind frantically blubbered.

Suddenly the tonfa dropped to the floor with a loud clang, and the right side of Ring-Man’s face disappeared in a spray of blood and tissue. A sai poked out of his eye socket, rendering it a pulpy mess. The cheek below was all but vaporized. With his one remaining eye, Ring-Man looked over at Don in stupefied wonder, let out a short, shrill scream, and then fell backward, dead.

From the corner of his eye, Don saw the glint of a katana blade as it arced down, neatly slicing open Malcom’s stomach. The cut yawned wide, and a deluge of blood cascaded down the front. Most of Malcom’s innards suddenly decided to call it a day and exited out with a wet splash onto the concrete floor. This was followed shortly thereafter by Malcom himself, who bowed out with a final horrid smack onto the ground. 

Don could dimly hear Tatsu’s furious growl as he launched his own belated attack, but then a second sai flashed through the air, puncturing Tatsu’s larynx with a solid _thump_. The impact sent him reeling, his hands fluttering ineffectually at his throat. He managed to keep himself upright just long enough to trip over Ring-Man’s body, which was lying in a growing blood puddle. Tatsu made a chocked noise, did a final shuffling pirouette, then pitched face-down onto the floor. The force of the collision jammed the hilt of the sai clear through the other side of his throat, where it poked out the back of his neck like a human shish-kebab.

In the tornado of motion that whirled and raged around Don, a gentle hand reached out and touched his arm. Don jerked reflexively, a muffled groan of terror on his lips as visions of another attack flitted through his overstrained mind.

“It’s okay, Donnie. I got you.”

Mike.

Don let out a choked sob of relief.

And only then did consciousness finally release him.


	2. Chapter 2

When Donatello awoke for the second time that night, he found himself draped over Raphael’s broad shoulders. They were underground, moving swiftly through a chaotic maze of pinched corridors and crumbling archways. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mike and Leo’s silent, shadow-like forms a few feet away. Though no words were said, there was an urgency in his siblings’ movements that spoke volumes. The realization of what it meant sent a fearful shudder rippling through Don.

Raph responded with a gentle squeeze of his forearm. “Hang in there. We’re almost home.” Something about his brother’s voice was wrong—off. The typically rough, quarrelsome tone replaced by something rare. Something fearful. Don couldn’t see the strain on his brother’s face in the near darkness of the sewer, but he could feel it in the too tight hold he had on Don’s arms. 

His brothers rounded a corner and stopped. Leo said something to Mike in a voice too low for Don to hear, but he soon felt the youngest quietly slip past them into the inky depths of the tunnel, back the way they’d come. Then it was just the three of them, and they were off again, racing through the dim shadows. Donatello clung to his brother and tried not to give voice to the convulsions wracking his crippled body.

Despite winter frosting the air around them, pearls of sweat strained down his forehead like tears. His whole existence had narrowed into a single blazing sun of agony that beat in time with his heart. Each intake of breath brought with it a sharp pain in his side, and one leg dangled at an awkward angle, almost certainly broken. 

But that was nothing compared to that torn, ravaged place between his legs. It was as if his intestines had been scooped out and replaced with broken glass. Blood dribbled down his thighs in a thin stream, and Don realized with a mixture of shame and horror that it was getting all over his brother too. He desperately wanted to apologize for the mess he was making and insist that he walk the rest of the way on his own. But his tongue felt clotted in his throat, and his bruised lips could barely form the words. Humiliation and despair burned the back of his eyes. Donatello squeezed them shut, grateful for the concealing darkness. 

With his cheek resting against the hard line of Raphael’s jaw, Don could feel his brother’s hurried breaths against his ear. After the horror of that night, it was a strangely comforting feeling, and he had to suppress the sudden need to burrow his chin into the hollow of his sibling’s neck. 

His brothers slowed once again, and Don felt himself being lifted up and over a low-hanging drainage pipe. He grimaced as the next wave of pain hit him, and with desperate determination tried to hold on to the thin cord of consciousness.

As if from a great distance, he sensed Leo’s approach. “Here, let me help, Raph.” 

“I _got_ it, Leo.” 

A sudden, jarring movement as they landed on the other side caused Don to cry out in a formless groan. 

Raph squeezed his arms again. “Stay with me, okay?” His brother was saying more, soft intonations meant only for him, but the words seemed to be echoing down and down. And then this too faded away. 

****

Donatello cycled in and out of consciousness over the next week. Time unraveled, becoming endless moments of pain-filled misery. 

Most of it was a semi-lucid blur, but some of it came through in broken patches. He remembered screaming. Lots of it. Piercing wails that echoed throughout the lair, sounding more animal than human. He remembered begging, too—pleading with Splinter, Leo, _anyone_ to make the hurt stop. But the limited supply of painkillers they’d pumped into him soon ran out, and all that was left was to wait. And hope.

In his quieter moments, Donatello’s mind simply floated in a gray, featureless miasma, marked only by the pulsating fire from his leg and the insistent pounding of his hollowed-out core. In this strange liminal world, faint whispering echoes seemed to float all around him. At times they sounded like his brothers, offering gentle words of encouragement. More often it was the harsh snickers and sinister taunts of his human captors, viciously salting his wounds with their searing barbs. 

Worse, though, was when the disparate voices merged into a single haunting chorus that screamed out his name in unison. The voices, at once hellish and sensual, were inseparable, calling out to him again and again, first in guttural growls, then in breathy susurrations too faint for him to decipher. Don thought they were the sort of sounds one might hear in a madhouse, and surely this meant he was going insane.

****

It was

_Days? Weeks?_

before the bleeding that trickled down between Donatello’s thighs finally stopped, and longer still before the slightest movement didn’t elicit a cry of pain. 

But it wasn’t until much later, when he could finally sit up on his own, that his brothers filled him in on his search and rescue; thanks, in large part, to Don’s singular predictability, and Raph’s radar-like tracking skills (though Mike would later quip that even a blind man could see the tracks the Foot left behind). 

Their collective escape was no small miracle, though. Tatsu had sentries posted in a mile-wide circumference around the building, and it took them precious hours to worm their way into the heavily-guarded compound. Yet Don’s rescue was only just the beginning. The turtles’ presence hadn’t gone unnoticed, and a phalanx of Foot soldiers, drawn by the sounds of battle, waited for them at every turn, blocking their escape. 

It was close. “ _Too_ close,” Leo said with a tight frown. 

His brothers didn’t make it out unscathed, either. Mike walked with a pronounced limp, and Leo was nursing a puncture wound from a well-timed kama. Raph looked like he took the worst of it, though. One arm hung uselessly in a makeshift sling, while a jagged laceration on his cheekbone came dangerously close to the eyeline. And though Raph tried to hide it, Don could see that he favored his left leg when he walked. 

Don couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt, but his brothers quickly assured him that what they got they gave in return. The bloody mayhem they’d left in their wake had been front-page news for over a month now, with the local station reporting 73 confirmed bodies, and a city-wide curfew that left the streets strangely empty at night.

Shredder was not among the dead, though. He was nowhere to be found.

At hearing this, Don’s heartbeat quickened with panicked alarm, his mouth suddenly dry. 

_It wasn't over._

He was still out there somewhere. And he’d strike again—of that Don had no doubt. 

As if reading his thoughts, Leo gave him a soft smile. “We’ll find him, Don – ”

“He won’t get away with this, I promise you _that_ ,” Raph growled with venom, curling the fingers of his good hand into a tight fist. Mike nodded emphatically at his side. 

Leo raised his hands before Raph could go on. “But _first_ ,” he said, giving Raph a meaningful look before turning his attention back to Don. “We need to focus on getting you better. _Then_ we’ll deal with Shredder.” 

Raph gave an impatient twitch of his shoulders, but didn’t argue. 

Don also remained silent, but inwardly he dreaded the thought of his brothers risking their lives yet again for him. The idea that any one of them might suffer the same fate as him – or worse – and all because he stupidly allowed himself to get caught, was just too much to bear. 

But he recognized the stony glint that’d crept into Leo’s eyes. It was the same one that Raph got just before a fight. It was the killing look, and when his brothers were of one mind, there would be no stopping them. 

Pulled between twin fears, Don swallowed thickly and stared fixedly down at his hands, hoping his brothers wouldn’t intuit his betraying thoughts. But Mike evidently sensed something because he reached over and gently grasped Don’s wrist. He then turned it inward against his lips and kissed it at the point where the pulse beat strongest. Without another word, he crawled over Don’s prone form, gave a loud warbling yawn, then curled up on the other side of the bed and promptly fell asleep. 

“Little twerp,” Raph grumbled, settling himself into the tattered La-Z-Boy someone had dragged in from the living room. He too was out a moment later. 

Leo came over and put a gentle hand on Don’s shoulder. “It’ll be okay,” he said, holding Don’s eyes with his own. Donatello had the uncomfortable feeling that Leo knew exactly what he’d been thinking. Ashamed, he looked away, afraid of what else his brother might see. But Leo’s hand remained, and Don sensed in the lingering hold on his shoulder that his brother wanted to say more, to maybe even broach the issue that they’d all carefully avoided talking about these last few weeks. Don’s breathing quickened in nervous anticipation. But just as he thought his brother might finally break the silence, Leo instead dropped his hand and stepped back. “Get some sleep,” he whispered over Raph’s snores. ”I’ll be in later to change the bandages.” 

But sleep was a long way off for Don. Though the presence of his brothers next to him was reassuring, it did nothing to quell the nightmares that waited for him behind closed eyes. Even in sleep, his subconscious continued to dredge up the same horrid memories of what happened to replay it back to him in vivid panorama. From the moment he shut his eyes, Ring Man’s voice would start to whisper to him in low, mocking tones, as human hands, warm and clammy, bound him from behind. The rough, probing fingers, soon turned into pummeling fists, and the torment would begin all over again. 

On the rare occasions when he managed to break free from his dream-world captors, he’d find himself locked in a labyrinth of warehouses—his assailants just a heartbeat behind. They’d chase him down endless hallways, getting closer and closer with each slow-motion step until finally a hand would reach out and grasp his shell, yanking him back to the torture room. It always ended the same, and each time he would claw his way up from sleep, a terrified scream locked in this throat.

****

It was on one of those nights, just before two, that Donatello awoke, bathed in sweat and afraid he’d screamed. Wiping hurriedly at his brow, he sat up and cast a sheepish glance over at Michelangelo who was on Don duty that night. But the youngest was still crashed out on the La-Z-Boy, his breathing slow and regular. Only Klunk, who was curled up at the foot of bed, noticed. With his head resting languidly on one paw, he gave Don a mild, inquisitive look before closing his eyes again.

Don laid back down and tried to do the same, but after an hour of restlessly tossing and turning he finally gave up, rolled onto his back and stared up at the dilapidated ceiling. There would be no more sleep for him that night. With a small sigh, he got up on an elbow and peered over at his sibling in the feeble light that seeped through the cracks in the door. Mike was wrapped in a tangle of mismatched bedsheets, one leg sprawled over the armrest, his mouth open in a silent O. Don could see by the dark circles under his brother’s eyes that the long vigils had ground them all down into a near constant state of exhaustion. He shook his head in silent self-reproach. They may have forgiven him for his momentary lapse in caution. Don, however, could not. 

Sighing again, he pulled back the blanket and looked at his bandaged leg that was still encased in its homemade brace. He was mercifully unconsciousness when Splinter’d reset the bone. Whether or not he would ever regain full use of it again, though, was another story. Don shifted into a sitting position at the edge of the bed, both legs dangling off the side. He gingerly tested his weight on them, then got unsteadily to his feet. With Klunk watching through half-lidded eyes, Don slowly limped past the sleeping form of his younger brother. Mike shifted slightly at his approach but didn’t wake. 

He paused at the doorway to catch his breath, one hand gripping the frame for support. Then, with a final guilty look over his shoulder, he hobbled out and closed the door behind him with a soft click. From there it was a slow shuffle to the kitchen, where he stopped just long enough to grab a scouring pad from under the sink. It was an equally long and arduous trek to the bathroom, but he eventually made it. The fact that he managed to do so without any of his brothers waking was no small miracle, given the circumstances. 

He closed the bathroom door and waited, ear pressed to the wood, listening for any sound. Though all seemed quiet in the lair, he doubted it would last much longer when word got out that their patient had gone AWOL. 

He blindly felt for the switch beside the door and flipped it on. The fluorescents overhead grudgingly buzzed to life, revealing a small but serviceable sink. On wobbly legs, Don turned and stood in front of the stained mirror. The reflection that stared back at him looked old and wasted beyond his 17 years. His skin had a sallow, haggard look to it and was stretched tightly against his sharp bones. Other than the watered-down broth he drank out of a sippy cup, he hadn’t been able to stomach much else. A closer look revealed a torso covered with an array of healing cuts and bruises, and one eye still had a fading yellowish ring around the outer edge. 

But the swelling around his lips had mostly gone down, and the small railroad of stitches along his bicep were due to come out soon. The pain in his lower region had subsided as well, though he refused to think about what kind of permanent damage might have been done down there. 

Overall, Splinter was pleased with his progress, and his brothers were equally upbeat. Mike was even busily planning their next getaway to the farmhouse, just as soon as Don could handle the trip. Everyone seemed to think that things would soon be back to normal. That _he_ would be back to normal. 

Don didn’t have the heart to tell them otherwise. Outwardly he appeared whole, but inwardly he was of two selves: that which came before, and the feeble ruin he was now.

Feeling achy and fatigued, Don absently rubbed at his wrist where the warmth of Mike’s kiss still lingered. Though he loved his brothers - more than he would ever dare to admit - he was no longer one of them. A psychological divide separated him from his family now, one that they could never cross.

He knew their accepting silence wouldn’t last for long, either. They would eventually catch on, and the questions would come. But how could he ever hope to explain it to them, to put words to this new reality, one that left him mentally balancing on the horizon of some interminable black hole – the smallest touch of which would send him reeling over the edge? No. There were no words, no formula or schematic that he could draw to explain the stranger he had become to his family. To himself. 

Don gave a short, despondent exhale. Turning away from the mirror, he started unraveling the layers of multicolored bandages covering his arms and legs. He tossed the blood-stained remnants into the wastebasket, then propped himself up against the sink and removed the leg brace. This he dropped it on the floor, followed by the rest of his gear that his brothers hadn’t already removed. 

A series of short, mincing steps brought him to the narrow basin that served as a bathtub. Leaning over the edge, he reached out and grasped the lever marked _H_. He gazed for an unhappy moment at his warped image in the burnished metal, then, with fingers that still shook slightly, cranked the lever as far as it would go. The water gushed out in a hot torrent. Don perched awkwardly on the edge of the tub and waited for it to fill, one hand unconsciously massaging at the protesting ache in his leg, then slowly, carefully climbed in. The water was almost scalding to the touch, and he hissed through clenched teeth before reaching out and turning the lever back to a soft trickle. 

Donatello drew in a contended breath, and slowly let it out. It was the first real bath he’d had in over a month. No doubt, he’d catch hell from his brothers for getting out of bed, but he just couldn’t take it anymore: the awful dirtiness inside, the burning shame. Under the cooling water, he felt calmer. Safer.

The metronome drip trickling from the faucet lulled him into a sleepy daze. Don softly closed his eyes, relishing the moment. Long minutes later, and with the look of someone awakening from a deep trance, he reached for the scouring pad. 

A thought that had been playing in his mind for weeks came to him again at that moment: _To be made whole, one must be cleansed of all defilement._ Don couldn’t remember where he’d first heard those words. Probably one of Leo’s books. His brother collected old philosophy texts the way Don collected copper wire. It pointed to an inner truth, though; one that he could only now understand. 

Donatello started scrubbing. 

When Michelangelo found him an hour later, drawn by some unnamable dread that pulled him from a fitful sleep, the water had gone a pale shade of red. It wasn’t until Mike finally managed to pry the now well-worn pad from his brother’s clenched fingers that Don noticed his younger sibling’s presence. With dazed, pain-filled eyes, he looked up at his brother as if seeing him for the first time. 

It was enough to send Mike tearing into Leo’s room. 

Don dully registered his brother’s retreating form, then reached over the lip of the tub and plucked the scouring pad Mike dropped on the way out. 

Don reached between his legs. There was still some cleaning to do.


	3. Chapter 3

Donatello awoke to the sound of his own screams. He bolted upright, eyes wide and panicked, his dreaming mind still reliving the assault in a tortuous, slow-motion replay. 

And then, mercifully, it was over. 

Sighing, Don ran a weary hand over his face. He’d never been so grateful to be awake. Tugging the threadbare blanket around his shoulders, he leaned back against the headboard and tried to clear his mind. No doubt it was going to be another long night. 

Nearly a year had passed; the seasons having come almost full circle. And though by his own assessments his outer wounds had healed well enough, the trauma of that night remained a jagged scar in his memory. Like the nightmares that waited for him behind closed eyes, it was an ever constant presence. His mind, turned against him now, had latched on to it like a dog with a bone, gnawing and sucking the marrow out of each and every would’ve and could’ve in a never-ending act of self-flagellation. There was no escaping it, and he knew that real madness was probably not far away. A part of him welcomed it, in fact. Maybe then, he reasoned, he might find some relief. 

Still staring into the past, his eyes drifted unseeing over the dusty remnants of his room. Half-finished experiments lay forgotten, the liquids in their carefully labelled test tubes having long since dissipated or turned to solid. One computer terminal read SYSTEM FAILURE across a blue screen, while another moldered beneath a fine layer of dirt and grime. The only thing on the wall above his desk was a tattered poster of Einstein sticking his tongue out at the world. One of Michelangelo’s scavenged gifts, Albert now had a fine layer of dust over his crinkled surface. 

Don looked at these once enjoyable things and felt nothing. 

Life held no meaning for him now. He rarely ventured past the safety of his bedroom anymore, often sleeping for days at a time. He shied away from all physical contact; whenever one of his brothers came within arm’s distance, he automatically added space. His family, thankfully, didn’t press, but he knew they felt his loss, as if one of them were missing. And in a way, he supposed, he was. It was as if something inside him had switched off. His mind barely seemed tethered to his body anymore; a living, breathing automaton, he was nothing but limb and bone now. The Donatello everyone knew was gone.

He turned his eyes to the ceiling, at the pipes that crisscrossed over his head. He thought about what he’d become. What he’d lost. The metal was strong, he knew. It would hold his weight. Had already been tested, in fact, after one particularly bad night a few months back. It would be easy enough to do: climb up on a chair, toss a knotted rope over. Not an honorable way to go, or even the best way out—

 _But a way out nevertheless_ , that hateful inner voice promised. 

A soft tap at the door broke through his thoughts. He looked over to see his oldest brother framed in the doorway. Leonardo gave him a warm smile. “Hey.”

Don’s eyes flicked over him in wordless acknowledgment. 

His sibling entered on silent feet, quietly shutting the door behind him. Donatello watched with wary eyes as he approached and sat on the edge of the bed. There was something about his brother’s demeanor, the way his shoulders were squared as if bracing for battle, that set his nerve endings on edge. An invisible knot tightened in his stomach. 

An uncomfortable silence settled around them. Don plucked anxiously at the blanket in his lap. He could feel Leonardo’s sharp eyes studying him, assessing him. He desperately wanted to hide from that stare. 

“Dinner’s ready,” his brother said at last, his face carefully neutral. “Mike made your favorite.”

Don nodded but said nothing. 

Leo scooted a little closer. “Thought maybe we could watch a movie afterward. Haven’t done that in a while. You know, the four of us…” 

Don gave a slight shake of his head. No. 

It was a familiar enough routine, these one-sided conversations. One or more of his siblings would gamely try to pry him out of his room, but he always refused, throwing up a wall of silence in defense. Eventually they’d leave him alone; fearful, perhaps, that he might retreat even further into himself if they pushed too hard. 

But not this time. 

Sensing Leo’s resolve, Donatello gnawed worryingly on his lower lip, a habit he’d only recently picked up. His eyes were inexorably drawn back to his brother who was now intently studying the floor. Don watched the thoughts play across his sibling’s brow. He knew that look well enough. It meant big brother was gearing up for a Talk. And when Leo wanted to Talk, he wouldn’t back down until you gave in, or, in the case of Raph, blew up. 

Was there any way out of this? His eyes darted over his brother’s shoulder to the door, mentally calculating the quickest means of escape. Not that Leo would simply let him walk out. No, the trick would be to distract his brother with a plausible excuse, then slip away when his defenses were down. But then what? Don didn’t know. He hadn’t left the lair in almost a year. The thought alone terrified him. 

He glanced back—and his eyes instantly locked with Leo’s. The knowing look on his sibling’s face told him everything. Donatello sighed. No way out of this one, least not without getting the others involved. Leo, he was sure, knew this too and was using it to his advantage. 

With no external means of escape, Don retreated inward again, his eyes drifting away to stare blankly at the opposite wall. It was then that he felt a slight shifting on the bed, and Leo’s arm lightly brushing against his leg. Donatello flinched as if burned and wrenched his knees tight against his chest. 

Leo pulled back slightly with an apologetic smile, but didn’t retreat. “Donnie,” he said, his voice calm, soothing. “We’re really worried about you.” 

Don looked away again, unable to meet the eyes that seemed so much like a searchlight into his mind. But Leonardo continued to press. “You barely eat. You haven’t trained in months. And the way you act around us now, it’s like…like you’re afraid of us.”

Leo inched a little closer, putting a tentative hand on Don’s shoulder. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” 

Donatello shrank away from his brother’s reach. 

“Don,” Leonardo tried again, his voice barely a whisper. “Please talk to me.” 

Donatello bit down on his lower lip, tasting blood this time. He’d been through unspeakable pain and torment, but the intense, unguarded concern on his brother’s face somehow felt worse. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. After months of near silence, talking felt impossible to him now. The words seemed locked in his throat. “I can’t,” he finally croaked. His voice sounded thin even to his own ears. “I just…can’t.” 

There was a heavy pause, then his brother seemed to gather himself once more: “You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” he said, placing a light hand over Don’s own. “You don’t have to fight this alone.” 

Something about Leo’s touch, the comfort and familiarity of it, and suddenly Donatello was closer to unraveling than at any time since that fateful night.

His eyes started to mist. Embarrassed, he quickly turned his head away. “Just go, Leo,” Donatello’s voice broke. They were all too big now to retreat into their shells, so he settled for huddling against the headboard, legs pulled tight against his chest. He locked his arms around his knees and buried his head. 

Leo moved closer to him. “Don,” he said, reaching out to him once more. 

Don’s response was muffled by his arms: “Leo… _please_.” 

But Leo didn’t. Instead, he leaned in close to press his forehead against Don’s. 

“Let me in,” Leo whispered. Don could feel his palms starting to sweat now. He clenched his shaking hands tightly, digging crescent-shaped moons into his flesh. 

“Let me in,” his brother said again, slowly encircling his arms around Donatello’s shoulders. Don couldn’t help the small whine that escaped him. He reached out to place a defensive hand against Leo’s plastron, but his brother simply tightened his hold. The eldest seemed determined to wait him out. Stuck at an impasse, neither of them moved. 

As the long minute’s passed, Leo’s breathing became slow and regular, and Don soon found himself matching his sibling’s breaths with his own. He could feel his body slowly relaxing in spite of himself, as if it alone understood what his mind couldn’t, so that when Leo silently coaxed Don into his arms he didn’t resist. Donatello leaned into his brother’s protective embrace, allowing himself to be held for the first time in months.

And in that moment, all the fear and pain he’d kept locked away for so long finally surged up and outward. Curling inward against his sibling’s chest, Don let out a horse cry of grief. “I’m sorry,” he wept into his brother’s shoulder, repeating the same words over and over again: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” His body rocked violently with each sob. Leo pressed his cheek to Don’s head and rocked with him. 

Donatello dug his fingers into brother’s arms, clutching him tighter. “Should’ve been more careful. I’m s-sorry,” he said thickly. 

Leo held him and said nothing. And for that, Don was grateful because right then all he wanted was to wrap his brother around him and wear him like armor against the waking nightmare his life had become. 

He didn’t know how long they sat like that, but when he looked up again he could see through the thin veil of tears a blur of red and orange, and knew that all his brothers were there. They’d encircled him, Leo in front, still holding him, one hand cradling the back of his neck; Raph and Mike on each side, all wearing identical expressions of concern. Don hurriedly swiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “Sorry,” he sniffed. 

Raphael placed a gentle hand on Don’s shell. “What for?” 

Don shook his head and a tear slipped down his cheek. 

“You did nothing wrong,” Mike echoed from his other side. 

Leo looked down at him, catching his eyes. “Come back to us, Donnie.” Don timidly met his brother’s gaze. The closeness of Leo’s lips to his own sent an involuntary shiver down his limbs. “I…” Don trailed off blankly, confused by the strange play of emotions swirling through him. 

He was dimly aware of his other two siblings pressing in on either side. Trapped between the three of them, he couldn’t leave even if he tried.

But then, Donatello suddenly realized, he didn’t want to. He’d never felt safer.

Leo leaned down, stopping a breath away. “We need you.” Don could feel the heat from his brother’s body radiating against him. His own heartbeat quickened in response. Still holding him in his powerful arms, Leonardo reached down to run a thumb along Don’s jaw. Don trembled slightly at the tingly sensation but didn’t pull away. 

Leo tilted his head lower until Don could feel his brother’s breath against his skin. He’d always wondered what it’d be like to taste those lips. He’d thought about it before. Many times, in fact. But he’d never dared to give voice to those thoughts for fear of how his brother might react. 

A memory came to him then, clear and powerful. They were hours into a sparring session many years ago, just him and Leo. Exhausted and nearly spent, he found himself at the losing end of a foot sweep that sent him crashing to the ground. Leonardo was on him in an instant. Donatello reached up to block the incoming punch, but his brother stopped short of connecting and instead shifted sideways into to a scarf hold. Before Don could even react, Leo had already hooked an arm around the back of his neck while pinning Don’s right forearm tightly against his side. Their faces inches apart, Don could see a triumphant little smirk playing at the corners of his brother’s mouth. Not about to admit defeat, Don clasped his hands behind Leonardo’s shoulders, ready to pivot and reverse the move. 

But something made him stop. His brother had a strange, unreadable expression on his face that Donatello couldn’t place. Both panting from exertion, they silently stared into each other’s eyes. The air around them seemed alive with electricity. Neither of them moved. 

Then, just as suddenly, the spell was broken. Without a word, Leo got up, releasing Don, and walked out. Confused, Donatello could only sit there and watch his brother’s retreating form. They never spoke of that night, and over time Don began to doubt that it’d ever happened. Yet the thought had lingered with him all through the years. 

Perhaps that’s what Leo was thinking of too when Don tilted his eyes up at him and saw that same mysterious look. This time, though, there was no doubt. 

An unspoken question hung in the air between them. Donatello swallowed, let out a shaky breath, and gave a slight nod.

Leo smiled, then put his fingers under Don’s chin and lifted his face up. He slowly leaned down and gave him a feather-light kiss. Don’s cheeks instantly flamed with color.  


Leo pulled back slightly, studying Don’s face. There was no movement in the room, no sound. It seemed to Don that they were suspended in the moment, as if the whole of time has stopped and the world was holding its breath. He wavered, pulled between haunted memories and a burgeoning desire. 

Desire won. 

With tentative movements, Don leaned forward to brush his brother’s lips with his own. Leo held still, a pliant statue, letting him take the lead. Slowly, hesitatingly, Don parted his brother’s mouth. A soft exhalation passed Leonardo’s lips. It immediately sent a heat rising up the back of Don’s neck. Emboldened, his tongue probed the perimeters of his brother’s mouth, then slipped past, entwining with Leo’s tongue. Leo responded with a low moan in the back of his throat, his tongue and lips coaxing, encouraging. 

As if to reacquaint themselves with the contours of his brother’s body, Don’s hands drifted across Leo’s arms and down his side, before settling along the outer edge of his hip. The feel of his brother’s skin against him was intoxicating. 

Leo pressed closer, leaning into Don so that he had to either spread his knees or be crushed up against the headboard by his brother’s weight. There was a moment’s doubt, a sharpening of thought, and then Don opened for him. With deliberate slowness, Leo eased between his legs. His eyes never left Don’s. The look was entrancing, and Don found himself being pulled into that hypnotic gaze. 

Leo continued to press against him, drawing deep kisses from his lips. A distant, more rational part of Don understood that he was slowly being eased onto his shell, opening him even further to his brother. Making him…vulnerable. The sudden, gut-wrenching realization of what that meant hit Donatello like a splash of cold water. Alarm, distinct and powerful, seized him, and a strangled sound burst from his lungs. He scrabbled upwards, blinded by an almost instinctual fear. 

Leo, instantly by his side, reached a questioning hand towards his face. “Don—”

Donatello wrenched himself backward, out of reach. “No-no, I _can’t_.” His heart was pounding so hard now, he thought it might stop altogether. He drew his knees up tight against his chest once more. His sides heaved as he gasped for air. To Don it sounded like a choking man’s last, desperate breath. His panicked mind was screaming at him to get out – get out _now_. 

Too consumed by fear and doubt, he didn’t see the unspoken look shared between Leo and Raph, but when Raph moved to sit behind him, encircling Don between his muscular legs, Donatello froze in renewed terror. 

“It’s okay,” Raphael whispered into his ear, “I gotcha.” 

Don was about to protest, ready to cry the whole thing off, but just then Raph reached around and linked one of Don’s hands with his own. It was an act of tenderness rarely seen in his brother, and one that was completely disarming. Don grasped his sibling’s fingers like a lifeline. Raph playfully responded by nibbling the back of his neck. Then, one hand still clasped in Don’s, he cupped Don’s face with his other and kissed him firmly on the mouth. The feeling sent a warm glow spreading through Don’s abdomen. 

Then Mike was at his side, wiggling his way between them, and with it came a new sensation as the youngest sibling painted ticklish kisses up and down his body. Donatello closed his eyes, relishing the new feeling as his brother’s fingers snaked their way down his legs until they rested against the sensitive skin inside his thighs. With the palms of his hands, he gently spread Don’s thighs open again, allowing Leo to once more settle between his legs. The eldest pushed his tongue into Don’s mouth again. His kisses were deeper this time, more demanding. Donatello leaned back against Raphael’s shoulder, delighting in the tactile sensation. Leo’s hips starting to move against him, a slight undulation that sent a corresponding thrill through Don’s own body. Holding him with his steady gaze, Leo’s hand traveled the distance to the place between Donatello’s thighs. Then it moved lower still, his finger lightly tracing the outer rim of Don’s opening in a slow circular motion. 

Michelangelo’s own fingers continued to trail inward, teasing the slit between his legs. To his own surprise, Don felt himself hardening in response. Helpless to his brother’s touch, he soon dropped into Mike’s coaxing figures. With a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, Mike laced their fingers together and placed both their hands on Don’s cock. He then began sliding them up and down the length of his shaft in a slow, maddening rhythm. Donatello groaned. His hips flexed upward against Mike’s hand, further pressing himself into Raph behind him who was eagerly tonguing his neck. Don turned his head slightly, giving his brother easier access. Raphael hungrily responded, his lips gliding down the curve of his neck, alternately kissing and licking. It was like being touched by a million little electrodes. He squeezed Raphael’s hand. His brother grinned at his throat then returned to the base of Don’s neck where he bit down—hard—forcing a cry from Don’s lips. Reeling from the heady mix of pain and pleasure, Donatello reached an arm up and around him to pull Raph into another kiss. His brother happily reciprocated, lapping fervently at Don’s mouth. 

He was soon joined by Leo, who planted kisses along Don’s plastron while his hand trickled down to Don’s entrance once more. Eyes pinned to Don, Leo ever so slowly pressed a finger in. Don immediately tensed and sucked in a deep breath. Leo paused, holding absolutely still, waiting, watching. When Don started to relax once more, Leo gently pushed in further. Don groaned. He’d never known his brother’s touch like this before. 

Sensing his brother’s readiness, Leo carefully inserted a second finger. Don let out an unconscious moan. Leonardo’s thick fingers continued to move in an ever widening circle, slowly stretching him open. Leo bent over him, forehead touching his own, and peered deep into Donatello’s eyes. Don could see the want in his brother’s expression. 

“Don,” Leo murmured, his fingers moving rhythmically inside him, pushing deeper, pressing harder. Donatello lifted his pelvis, rising to push against Leo’s hand, wanting more. 

Then the fingers were gone and Don was suddenly left empty and wanting. He voiced a soft cry of frustration, but Raph stifled it with a crushing kiss that smashed Don’s teeth against his lips and left them both gasping. 

At the exact same moment, Mike’s lips slid around his cock. Don let out a surprised sound. His sibling’s tongue glided up and down his shaft, his mouth making soft wet noises. Donatello arched upward, a rising tension building in his body. Between the three of them, he’d become pure sensation. He closed him eyes and moaned his approval as Michelangelo continued sucking him, his tongue playfully twirling around the tip. 

But then he felt his hips being pulled up against Leo’s waist. Don opened his eyes to see his brother’s engorged cock poised at his entrance, the head glistening with pre-cum. A moment of fear lanced though him as visions of his human assailants flooded his memory. Reading his thoughts, Leo leaned down over him, his lips a breath away. 

“Trust me, Donnie,” Leonardo whispered. 

Donatello looked up into his brother’s eyes and pushed the fear away. “I do.” 

Leo gave him a soft smile before bending down for another kiss. He then began to rub his swollen crown against Don’s opening in slow, tantalizing circles. Donatello breathed in and tried to will his body to relax. 

When Leo pushed into him, Don let out an involuntary gasp, which was immediately swallowed by Raph’s kiss. Don reflexively breathed in, pulling warm air from his sibling’s lungs. Raph responded by lightly nipping his tongue. 

Don moaned a second time into his brother’s mouth as Leo pushed in a few more inches. He was slowly being stretched, his body molding itself around Leo’s cock. His brother soon set a slow rhythm, easing himself in and out, in and out, pressing in a little further each time. 

Exquisite waves of pleasure radiated through Don’s body. He pushed his hips back against Leo, impaling himself even further on his brother’s cock. Don let out a shuddering breath. 

His sibling’s eyes were glazed with lust. “God, you feel so good,” Leo whispered against him. Don could hardly form the words in response. The sensations coursing through him were too overpowering. The timing between each new thrust seemed interminable, and his body soon demanded more. Don grasped the back of Leo’s thighs and pressed down, urging his brother to go faster. Leonardo, sensing his need, increased the rhythm incrementally. But it still wasn’t enough. Donatello knew his brother was holding back. Reaching up, he wrapped his whole body around Leo’s torso, pressing his face into his brother’s neck. “Please,” he begged.

He knew the moment when Leonardo’s carefully-honed control slipped. In that instant, his brother lost all restraint, and in one fluid movement he buried the length of his cock into Don at full speed. Donatello cried out against his brother, his hips rocking upward. Leo’s expression was one of unrestrained passion. Don loved the sight of it. The look of it set his own heart racing on the tilting edge of control. He held Leo tight against him, their bodies rocking in unison with each powerful thrust. Leo’s heavy breaths in Don’s ear told him that his brother was quickly losing all control. Donatello held tighter to him, cleaving their bodies together. Then with one last shuddering push, Leonardo let out a stifled groan. 

Still inside, he leaned down and kissed Don again, long and tender. Don clung to him still, not wanting the moment to end. When Leo pulled out, he couldn’t help but whimper at the loss of his brother inside him. 

But then Mike was crawling between his legs, and Don was so, so grateful because the emptiness was unbearable. He looked up into his younger brother’s eyes and saw desire…and something more. There was a sadness there as well; a grief that Don, lost in his own misery for so long, hadn’t really noticed before. Mike had always been the most sensitive of his brothers; the one who reacted the strongest to the pain of his siblings. It was both a talent and a curse, and it hurt Don’s heart to see his little brother like that. He realized how much Mike needed this—they all did. 

But Mike was hesitating now, his movements suddenly uncertain and restrained. 

Don caressed his brother’s cheek. “It’s okay, Mikey,” he breathed. 

Michelangelo’s face twisted up into a pained expression. His voice wavered: “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“It’s okay,” Don soothed again, one hand massaging the back of his brother’s neck. “I trust you.” 

But even as the words passed his lips, his vision started to double, and he realized he was crying again. And so was Mike. Don pulled his youngest brother down against him, holding him tight against his chest. They lay like that for a quiet moment, Mike shaking lightly against him, while Don rubbed a calming hand across his brother’s shell, providing the comfort he himself had refused for so long now. 

Then he was wrapping his legs around his sibling’s waist, guiding Michelangelo down and into him. With Mike it was slow and sweet. Looking down between their hips, Donatello watched as his brother’s thick shaft pressed in and out of him, every inch disappearing inside, filling him completely. The sight of it sent delicious shivers up his body. Don closed his eyes, and tipped his head back against Raph’s shoulder. His own body moved in rhythm, meeting each of his brother’s long strokes until Michelangelo finally cried out and stilled. 

Feeling the warm, salty liquid of both his siblings seeping down between his legs, Don wrapped his arms around his brother and pulled him closer, breathing in the familiar scent. Another memory came to him then: the four of them were playing hide-and-seek in the darkened tunnels beyond the lair. Mike, who couldn’t have been more than eight or nine at the time, was it. He’d already found Raph (who was loudly griping that Mikey had cheated _again! ___and was in reaching distance of Donatello’s hiding spot. Tucked away in the corner of the crumbling alcove that served as his hiding space, Don held his breath, certain his sibling could hear his heart beating. He waited for his brother to pounce or pass by. The minutes seemed to stretch on forever. But when nothing happened, Don decided to risk it. Crouching low, he cautiously peeked his head out.

The tunnel was empty. 

He slumped back against the wall behind him, safe for the moment. It was only then that a hand clamped around his mouth. Biting back on a scream, Don whirled around to see his little brother beside him grinning ear to ear. The look was so endearing and goofy that he couldn’t help by smile back.  


Don was about to get up and join Raphael at the Loser’s Circle, when Mike made a zipping motion across his lips. Puzzled, Donatello held his position. He was about to open his mouth to ask what for when Mike, suddenly and without warning, cupped Don’s face in his hands and kissed him squarely on the lips. Don gave a surprised yelp, which came out sounding more like _mmpphh!_ in his brother’s mouth. An instant later, Mikey was scampering off into the darkness, arms flapping up and down like an improbable bird, leaving Don both dumbfounded and thoroughly confused by the first heat of hormones that his youngest brother had suddenly awakened in him. 

Donatello smiled at the old memory and held his brother closer. Mike coiled himself around Don’s chest and kissed the corner of his eyes, whispering words of love and tenderness. Then, with a final parting kiss, his brother pulled out and the emptiness returned again. Don reluctantly let him go. 

His body was craving for its own release now, so he was grateful when Leo and Raph switched places, and Raph settled between Don’s eager knees. It was only then that Don noticed the feral glint in his brother’s eyes. Renewed doubt coursed through him, but the kiss Raph gave him was so tender and loving that Don almost lost it again. 

Raphael had always been the largest of the four, and in this he was no different. When he pushed in with one firm thrust, Don felt the first twinge of real pain. His instinct was to pull away, but Leo had his heels hooked around Don’s calves, spreading him wide open and giving Raphael unfettered access. 

Wedged between his two brothers, Donatello’s body strained to take Raph in, the old scars threatening to rupture. But Raphael’s patience was nearly monk-like when he wanted to be, and he held still, letting Don adjust to him. 

Inch by inch, Raphael slowly filled him. Don couldn’t help the little sound that escaped him as Raphael stretched him to his limits. His brother inside him made him feel so exquisitely full. 

The hungry look was back in Raph’s eyes now. He started to move faster, then faster still. His hips began to grind into Don with increasing force. Soon Raphael was setting a relentless, pounding rhythm. Don gritted his teeth against Leo’s neck. The eldest held him close and whispered comfort while Mike reached down to stroke Don’s own seeping cock once more. 

It wasn’t long before Raph was at Don’s throat again. His teeth briefly grazed the side of his neck before biting down on the delicate flesh. Donatello cried out, though whether in pain or pleasure he couldn’t tell anymore. 

His brother’s eyes were blazing and possessive. They glowed like emeralds in the near gloom. The primal virility of that stare sent shivers coursing through Don. Raphael leaned down next to his ear, his breath hot against his skin. His voice was low, husky, almost a growl: “You-belong-to-us.” Each syllable was punctuated by a deep thrust that rocked Don’s entire core. His whole body prickled with the sound of that challenging, sensual threat. It was frightening, but at the same time he wanted it, lusted for it. Don’s hips started to circle beneath him in a crescendo of pleasure. 

Somewhere in the depths of his own passion, he understood that his brothers were reclaiming him. By putting their collective mark on him— _in_ him—they were binding him to them once more. This was what he needed, he realized; to have his brothers fill him. Love him. And just as he belonged to them, they belonged to him. That thought alone nearly sent him over the edge. Reveling in his possession, Donatello gave himself over completely to his brothers. 

He reached up and grasped the tails of Raphael’s mask, roughly pulling him down into a forceful kiss, driving his tongue deep into his brother’s mouth. He simultaneously tightened his lower muscles, clenching the inner walls of his body against Raph’s cock. A little sound erupted from the back of his brother’s throat, something between a moan and a growl. His hips rocketed forward, pounding mercilessly into Don.

It was ecstasy. 

Suddenly the world blanked out and Don’s body arched off the bed, his mind an explosion of euphoria. In one final, shuddering release, Donatello cried out in breathless passion.  


At the same time, Raphael gave out a last staggering thrust and climaxed, groaning loudly. Emptied, he collapsed against Don’s plastron, breathing heavily. 

Don, panting and utterly spent, slumped weakly against Leo, who trundled him in his arms, then bent down and lightly kissed his temple. Don gave his brother a tired smile and settled deeper against him. 

There was a pleasant soreness inside him; a loose tiredness in his limbs that was calling him to sleep.  


He blinked slowly and looked down at Raphael, who was already snoring lightly against his stomach. Don contentedly traced his fingers along his brother’s shell. He then looked over at Mike, who smiled up at him with sleepy eyes, before stretching out beside him with a languid yawn, one hand curling against Don’s hip.

Lulled by the comforting presence of his brothers around him, and the steady rise and fall of their breaths, Don’s own mind began to drift. For the first time in almost a year, he felt at peace; the fraying cord of his sanity made strong again. Don’s eyes slowly flickered closed. 

And as Donatello slipped into a dreamless peace, Leo held them all against himself: one arm around Mike, the other touching Raph, and Don nestled against his chest. 

Their family made whole again. 


	4. Chapter 4

It was hot and muggy the night Donatello found him. There was a sliver of moon to see by, but the sky was quickly growing heavy with rain clouds. Don hid among the shadows, watching, waiting. It’d taken the better part of two weeks to track him down, but the clandestine searches had finally paid off. 

His eyes narrowed, surveying the abandoned slaughterhouse from his hidden vantage point in the alley across the street. Little of the building remained now except for the old cinderblock façade, marred with faded graffiti, and a sooty smokestack that leaned precariously to the right. There was a weathered sign out front, a rusted board with movable letters. The message read: Being A Vegan Is A Big Missed Steak. 

He soon spotted the second-story window hanging loosely from its hinges. An easy climb. He scanned the grounds once more. The roving Foot he’d seen earlier was still on the opposite side of the building, not yet doubling back. Don took one last look around and sprinted forward. Swiftly crossing the street, he slid into the shadows along the building’s nearest wall. There he froze, listening intently. No panicked alarms ensued, no hurried footsteps headed his way. Good, he’d not been seen. 

He climbed the pitted exterior of the wall in quick, sure-footed movements, pried the window open with thumb and forefinger, and slipped silently inside. The interior was hardly more than a hollowed-out block of cement. It was dark and dank, with a smell of old death and something like moldering seaweed left to rot in the sun. 

Don studied the layout of the room before him with a clenched feeling of anxiety thrumming behind his plastron. Shredder was in here somewhere. He was sure of it. 

The plan was simple if not exactly Leo-approved: get in, find the video’s memory card, kill Shredder, and get out. Beyond that, Don didn’t know. Part of him wanted to call the whole thing off, wait until he could return with his brothers, none of whom had any idea what he was doing at that moment. The other part needed to know that he could do this alone. 

Steeling himself, Donatello eased his way to the floor of the slaughterhouse. He kept to the shadows, slowly threading his way down the corridor that ran parallel to the kill floor. 

A black-clad Foot solider stood sentry at a glassless window near the opposite end. Don stayed low, eyes on the enemy, skirting the perimeter. No sense bringing attention to himself, least not before he found what he was looking for. One hand hovered close to the weapon on his shell as he crept along the outer edges, while the other felt along the wall until a sharp change in angle told him he'd reached another corridor. 

He cautiously followed it along, where it eventually led him up a short flight of metal stairs that ended at an unlocked door. After a guarded look, Don slipped inside and hastened down a dimly lit hallway. He was considering his next move when a noise, hardly noticeable beneath the buzzing of the flickering fluorescents above, drew his attention. He paused mid-step and cocked his head.  


There was someone here.

Don warily followed the sound, rounding first one corner, then another. 

And there he was. Shredder.

Don immediately drew back against the wall. From his hidden vantage point, he could just make out Shredder hunched over a metal desk in the cramped office. His focus was on some kind of diagram, one that looked disquietingly like a sewer map, Don realized, as he took a tentative step towards the partially open door. Shredder’s brow was knitted in concentration as he scribbled something on the document splayed out before him. 

Don’s first purpose forgotten, he shot a quick look over his shoulder, making sure they were truly alone, then approached the threshold with careful steps. His eyes quickly assessed the interior. The office was hardly more than a closet, with barely enough room to turn around. A single overhead bulb was the only source of illumination. The walls were dingy and bare, save for a torn butcher’s guide of a steer tacked on one side, and a faded 2008 calendar with the month of July showing an incongruous display of puppies frolicking through an overbright field of daises hanging on another. 

Shredder sat in a tired-looking chair, utterly absorbed. He was unarmed, clothed in a simple dōgi, and alone. 

The kill would be easy. 

But Don had something more in mind. 

He stepped into the room and in one smooth motion pulled his bō, driving the end of it against the door behind him and causing it to slam shut with a loud bang. 

Shredder jerked upright and swiveled around in his chair. His eyes bulged in startled recognition. “You,” he growled. 

“Me,” Don agreed and smashed the tip of the bō into Shredder’s nose. It broke with a satisfying crunch. Shredder made a low wounded sound, his hands instinctively going to his face as blood cascaded down his chin. Another whip of the bō across his skull sent him sprawling to the floor. 

To his credit, Shredder immediately started to rise, but then Don drove his elbow into the soft flesh of his enemy’s temple and he crumpled like a rag doll. Feeling invigorated, Don followed up with a solid kick to the solar plexus. Shredder coughed explosively and tried to roll away. Trapped within the small confines of the office, though, he had nowhere to go. He opted, instead, for crawling on his elbows in a feeble struggle to reach the door. 

Donatello allowed Shredder this small victory then strode towards him, covering the short distance in two quick steps. He roughly pulled him away by the scruff of his uwagi, forcing him to walk on his knees across the bare concrete floor, back towards the desk. When Shredder was right where he wanted him, Don planted a foot on his ass and shoved, sending him face first into a metal drawer handle. On impact, Shredder gave a toneless grunt. His head rolled loosely on his neck, a ragged flap of skin dangling from his forehead like a gory strip of wallpaper. 

Dazed and bloodied, Shredder jackknifed backward in a burst of flailing limbs, aiming straight for Don’s shins. Don easily sidestepped the attack and jabbed his bō into Shredder’s knee cap, instantly shattering it. Shredder howled in agony and tried to scramble under the relative safety of the desk, but Don was quick to jerk him back out by the ankles, which elicited another groan of pain. 

Without a word, Donatello reached over Shredder’s prone body and wrenched the desk lamp’s electrical cord from its socket. Cord in hand, he quickly hog-tied his captive’s ankles. This he followed up with a couple of zip ties from his belt, securing Shredder’s wrists around the metal legs of the desk. 

Donatello had never felt such blistering rage. His fists rose and fell like vengeful hammers. Each time they connected with a heavy thud, causing Shredder to contort in a rictus of pain. One clavicle now protruded from the sternum, thanks to a particularly boisterous kick. The satisfying sound it made when Don broke it was like dry kindling snapping. Without the armor, Shredder looked oddly vulnerable. Blood from a dozen different wounds flowed over his forehead, nose and chin. The room stank of copper and human sweat. 

Again and again he struck his tormenter, who soon went boneless under the relentless jabs, chops, and kicks. A part of Don, a very distant, quiet part, wondered how he could find any pleasure in this primordial violence. But he quickly pushed the thought away with an abrupt ax-kick to Shredder’s ribs, promptly cracking them. Shredder made a garbled moaning sound and clutched weakly at his side.  


Breathing lightly, Don looked down at his hands. His raw knuckles were sticky with blood and bone shards. He wondered briefly if this was the kind of anger that Raph felt.

At the thought of his brother, Don stilled his arms and waited. 

He’d sensed their presence long ago; black shapes moving against the darker shadows of the warehouse, so he didn’t flinch when a hand, much like his own, reached out and brushed his shoulder. A light touch, familiar. Leo. 

“Cops are coming,” his brother said gently from behind. Don nodded wordlessly, not raising his eyes. 

“The video,” he blurted, suddenly remembering. “I didn’t –”

Leo’s hand momentarily squeezed then relaxed. “Raph found it.” 

Before his brother could say more, Raphael appeared in the doorway, the body of the Foot soldier from downstairs now lying motionless at his feet. 

Don turned to face him, a hopeful look in his eyes. “Took care of it,” Raph said in answer to Don’s unspoken question. “Killed the hard-drive it was on, too,” he said with a triumphant grin. 

Don let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It sounded curiously like a sob. The feel of his older brother’s hand still on his shoulder had cooled his feverish hate and desperation, and he leaned into it. Leo curled a comforting arm around him and shot a cursory glance at Shredder, who sat huddled against the metal leg of the desk, breathing weakly. Leo brought his head close to Don’s. “Mikey says we’ve got about three minutes before they get here.” 

Don nodded and stood straight again, chewing at his lower lip in thought. “You two go on ahead,” he said at last. “I’ll catch up with you.”  


His older brother gave him a searching look, but thankfully said nothing. With a nod at Raph, Leo turned to go, Raphael trailing distantly behind.

“Raph,” Don whispered, reaching out a hand to stop him. “I...” he stopped, not sure what else to say. 

His brother paused, a questioning look on his face. He glanced over his shoulder at Leo disappearing around the corner and out of sight, then back at the bloody human on the floor. Raphael rubbed a callused hand across the back of his neck and looked meaningfully at Don, then drew a sai and handed it to him, hilt first, one thumb brushing against his own. 

Don gave him a small, grateful smile. “Thanks,” he said, he eyes briefly locking with his brother’s. “You know, for everything.” 

Raph waived the words away, a half-smile at his lips. “We’ll be waiting,” he said, squeezing Don’s upper arm before leaving to join the others. Don watched him go, feeling a surge of warmth for his brother’s unspoken understanding.

Turning back to stare at the thing who’d nearly killed him, Donatello drew in a thick breath and welcomed once more the burning fury at work in his mind. He hefted the sai experimentally, liking the weight of it. 

Thunder bellowed in the distance. It was going to pour in another minute or two. Don nodded to himself. A minute or two. Plenty of time.  


He twirled the weapon over the back of his hand and with deliberate slowness started towards the huddled figure on the floor. Seeing his intent, Shredder’s pain-filled eyes rolled in their sockets, searching for an escape.

Don slammed the hilt of the sai squarely in the center of his head. A small geyser erupted from the spot. Shredder let out a choked scream. 

“Yell all you want.” Don’s voice was cold, clinical, like the sound of a cylinder turning in a revolver. “No one can hear you.” 

Blood poured down Shredder’s face in rivulets. Don stared at the gushing wound; at the mishmash of welts and bruises; at the writhing figure on the floor. The sound of police sirens finally broke his reverie, and he blinked as if awakened from a deep sleep. Time to go.  


Don flipped the sai out and knelt on one knee next to Shredder whose mouth was drawn down in agony as blood pored between his clenched teeth.

Don raised the sai to Shredder’s field of vision. The point flashed deadly sharp in the ambient light. 

Without further ceremony, he placed it over the human’s heart and brought the weapon down with all his strength. The sai instantly punctured Shredder’s chest wall. Shredder made a whooshing sound and blood pooled scarlet beneath him. Don twisted the weapon clockwise, feeling the insides break and tear, sending more blood rushing outward. All expression dropped off Shredder’s face, his eyes dimming as awareness slipped away. 

Don listened to the rain rattle off the roof while one of Shredder’s feet twitched and a blood stain spread across his torso. Humans are marvelously weak, Donatello thought, wiping the blood off the sai on a half-clothed leg. He stood and secured the weapon in his belt, then turned and quickly made his way out the office, back down the hallway, and towards the same broken window he had entered from a few minutes before. 

It was pouring when he met his brothers in the shadows of the alleyway. The cool droplets felt good on his skin. Donatello tilted his head up and let it wash the blood away. He was crying, though he didn’t realize it at first, crying in a way he hadn’t since those first days after the assault. A multitude of arms soon closed around him, and he welcomed the consoling embrace of his siblings. He was wrung out and exhausted, but he also felt a kind of peace now. After a while, he stepped back and swiped at his face with the back of his hand.  


He handed Raphael back his sai. “How’d you know where to find me?”

“Took turns following you,” Raph said then clapped Michelangelo playfully on the shell. “Mikey had the honors tonight.”

Mike flashed Don a sheepish smile. Don couldn’t help but return it with one of his own as the youngest slung an arm around his shoulders and lightly pecked Don on the cheek. They turned to watch the police cruisers screeching to a halt on the wet pavement. Officers scurried out by the dozens and quickly circled the slaughterhouse, screaming orders at each other. 

Donatello took one last look at the frenzied scene then turned his back and struck a path home. His brothers followed close at his side, their shadows cast by the streetlights blending as one.


End file.
